Sightjogging: A Way to See Rome in a Day

On a guided running tour through the heart of the Italian city, you can see ancient sites and get a workout, too

ENLARGE

HILL COUNTRY | The author, center, running up an incline in Rome.
Patrick Adams for The Wall Street Journal

By

Charles Bethea

April 3, 2014 3:28 p.m. ET

I PROBABLY SHOULDN'T have had so much lasagna and vino rosso the night before the most strenuous sightseeing excursion of my life. But having just arrived, I was doing as the Romans do: chewing and drinking late into Friday night. The lasagna—rich but light, decadent yet restrained—was a form of carbo-loading, I reasoned.

After two helpings, I retreated to my rented flat for a nightcap with two pals. Pouring a final glass of wine before bed, I reminded Andrew and Pat that we'd be meeting at 8 a.m. That seemed soon. "What are we doing, again?" Pat asked. "Running around ancient Rome," I said, laughing.

In 2005,
Carolina Gasparetto,
a personal trainer and translator, began offering a new kind of sightseeing—its jock cousin, really. "I remember seeing runners in the center of Rome, mostly foreigners, trying to make out from their maps where to go for a jog," she said. "I thought how amazing it would be to go jogging with a person who knew the city and your language."

Hence sightjogging, with expert guides offering clients exercise and edification at the same time. Ms. Gasparetto claims to have originated the concept, though guided sightjogging (or sightrunning) tours are offered around the world, from Buenos Aires to Jerusalem, Lyon to Philadelphia. Several years ago, Ms. Gasparetto submitted the term she says she coined to the Oxford English Dictionary. "I have had no response," she said. "But you never know!"

Sightjogging is designed for those who are short on time—perhaps on attention, as well—but want a more active and unusual experience than a bus tour. Ms. Gasparetto will customize tours, but nearly all routes hit the main sights in the ancient part of the city. To do this in less than 90 minutes (her rough time limit) a runner must not dawdle or attempt to take in too much. It also helps to be in decent shape.

I have, at times in my life, called myself a runner. I've finished a half-marathon, a sprint triathlon and shorter races. At 32, I'm not competing very much. But this is Europe, I told myself. How intense could it be?

Ms. Gasparetto had suggested we start early to beat the heat; predicting hangovers, I'd pushed the meeting time back. She was outside our flat precisely on schedule, our guide jogging in place beside her. I'd hoped to be running with an athletic
Sophia Loren
; instead we had
David Martinez.

‘We saw plenty of walkers, but no one else moving at our speed. A policeman stared as we raced by.’

Mr. Martinez was no slouch. The 28-year-old Chicago native was a graduate student at the Pontifical Institute of Christian Archeology. He'd lived in Rome for five years, and in addition to leading sightjogs was an official Vatican guide. Most impressive to me: He had been a Division I runner at the University of San Antonio, and once completed a half-marathon in less than 90 minutes.

"I try to go the pace of the client," he said, unconvincingly.

Ms. Gasparetto had suggested a challenging 8-mile route—I'd told her we were in great shape—that would pass the 2,000-year-old Colosseum, the Roman Forum and the Circus Maximus. It would be a circuit through Ancient Rome—up and down hills, through parks, down alleys, across major thoroughfares and the Tiber River.

There was no stretching or overview of the route; we just started…running. The first rule of sightjogging emerged as we headed down Via Prenestina, a four-lane street in northwestern Rome that's crisscrossed with tram tracks: Pay attention to traffic. "I've never lost a client," said Mr. Martinez, who has led over 100 sightjogs. "But stay alert." A bus whizzed by. My stomach already felt heavy; worse when I thought about the lasagna.

As we rounded a corner where a few men sat drinking morning macchiatos, Mr. Martinez pointed out ancient aqueducts, which looked just like any other stone edifice. "They were combined into a wall to protect the city," he explained, without stopping. "Third-century Aurelian walls." Onward.

"Careful right here," he said, dodging a tram as we crossed Via di Porta Maggiore, nearing an ancient but still functional drinking fountain. "We'll see more of these," he said, pausing to demonstrate how to plug the bottom spout with a finger, sending a stream of water out through another hole. The fountains nursed our headaches. We didn't seem to be the only ones who'd stayed out too late: A few well-dressed men in their 20s lurched, eyes glazed, into a cafe.

Running on past tall Roma pines, we saw plenty of walkers, but no one else moving at our speed. A policeman stared at us as we raced by. "Italians and jogging don't go together," Mr. Martinez admitted. Most of his clients are Americans, Germans and Brits. The fastest was a lady from Liechtenstein, he recalled.

"We get a lot of shade here in Rome," Mr. Martinez continued, veering down a narrow, cobbled street bordered by tall apartment buildings blocking the sun. Somebody called for a water stop; we'd gone nearly 3 miles and all felt winded. Pat, who was carrying a heavy camera, was in particularly rough shape. Drinking deeply, I looked up and saw Santa Maria Maggiore, a picture-book church with a Romanesque bell tower. The rest of the group took off as I gazed. "People found their way into the city by the sound of bells," said Mr. Martinez, already yards ahead. "On the inside," he said, "there are mosaics—little square tiles making up different Biblical scenes, dating back to the fifth century." Pause. "Cross to the left."

"That church," Mr. Martinez said, "was built after the council of Ephesus, in 431, where Mary was declared Theotokos—the mother of God." I nearly tripped over some pigeons. We came to an ancient bath complex. "It wasn't just for bathing," Mr. Martinez said, checking his watch. "It was more of a modern-day fitness center. They had over 100 holidays a year, and often people would come relax and socialize here. There wasn't much jogging back then."

Then there was the Colosseum, just over a Seussian stand of pines. This, I'd learned in grammar school, was where gladiators had found fame or death. I asked Andrew how he was doing. Sweating hard, he considered: "Great run, but I'm not sure how much I'm absorbing." We admired history from a distance, maintaining our 6 miles per hour. "The Flavius family had it built in eight years, by thousands of slaves," Mr. Martinez said. "It was finished by Titus. It could have fit 70,000 people on marble seats. Turn here down to the left."

It was a bit like that moment in "National Lampoon's Vacation": "Don't you wanna look at the Grand Canyon?"
Chevy Chase
takes a quick peek, then gets back in the station wagon.

By mile 7, farther than I'd run in a year, we were heading down Via del Circo Massimo, alongside the ancient chariot-racing stadium. With what little blood still flowed to my brain, I began to finally appreciate the plodding tours of my youth. Still, as workouts go, this was perhaps my most memorable. Plus, it made me hungry again.

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